The Broken Vigil
by Zerbinetta
Summary: The Knight-Commander's daughter isn't allowed to show weakness. Such as not following in her mother's footsteps. Or fraternizing with the enemy. AU, ongoing LJ meme fill, Hawke/Anders, Hawke/Cullen.
1. Chapter 1

Ongoing kinkmeme fill with plot bunnies that just. Won't. Let. Go. It'll get updated here whenever I have enough material to have an entire chapter out. It looks like it's going to be one of those long ones… but then again, I wanted to write more stuff with Anders and Cullen, so this is pretty much a perfect opportunity. As I like my Hawke's name, I'm keeping it, even if she isn't a mage in this story and they are unconnected. Like TBT, this is wildly AU.

The prompt is: _Meredith expects her daughter (Hawke) to become a templar (might already be an apprentice), or expects her to devote her life to the chantry (is preparing to take vows?). Either way, it's not a life Hawke wants, but Mother Dear's word is final. She meets Anders; complicated star-crossed love blooms. Or Cullen begins to see Hawke in a new light (first met Hawke when she was just a teen). _

**o.O.o**

**One**

**o.O.o**

As it happened every day for the past fifteen years in Kirkwall, a lone figure of a young woman entered the templar training grounds at seven in the morning, in full battle gear, a sword and shield. The templar training schedule was rigorous, but her armor and hopes in life were somewhat different. But every day, without fail, she appeared there, a stranger among the many uniformed men (and some women) who were brave, besotted and masochistic enough to come watch her without fail.

"Good morning, Lady Stannard."

"You are looking exceptionally well, Lady Stannard."

"Would you do me the honor of practicing with me later on, Lady Stannard?"

Not even fear of her mother kept this overeager politeness entirely at bay, especially in these rare moments when neither side was under Knight-Commander Meredith's careful scrutiny. And why would it? Every ounce of beauty the mother might have possessed in her youth was amplified in her daughter - they had the same flaxen hair, high cheekbones and angular features, but her daughter's eyes were a soft, sky blue, with none of the ice of the templar commander. She also wielded a sword with nearly equal ferocity as her feared and famous mother.

In fact, if Meredith was indeed the de facto queen of Kirkwall, then the templars certainly had a princess to pine after, as all knights in trashy romance stories should. It seemed like the perfect fairytale in which the princess ought to lack for nothing – she had a mother who would literally do anything for her happiness, a garrison of eligible and devoted knights worshipping her every step and lived in a city she loved.

To say that Illyria Stannard had a bad life would be an outright lie. To say she hated it was not a complete inaccuracy, though.

Her very birth had been a surprise; her mother still refused to say who her brief paramour had been, so Illyria assumed that his loss must have hurt her deeply. As the years passed, though, she caught the mutterings that speculated that perhaps it was because her lover had been a mage that the Knight-Commander refused to speak of him and why her daughter had been thrust into the ideals of the Chantry as swiftly as possible. And, as early in childhood as it had been possible, received a toy sword instead of a pretty doll in a velvet gown.

Looking back on her childhood and teenage years, Illyria could glumly admit that there was the distinct possibility that her mother had taken these precautions to ensure her obedience in the unlikely case she would be shamed with having a mage child. She received a beautifully crafted suit of armor on her eighteenth birthday, with Chantry symbols engraved all over it. It was at that point that she realized it was a reward for passing the test of faith, as her mother would no doubt call it.

Her mother had been so proud to see her defeat more recruits than before in her new chainmail. But it was a bitter victory, because Illyria eventually learned that the reward for not being a mage herself hardly meant no more mention of the subject of magic.

Growing up as the daughter of a devoted templar, Illyria had always been firmly steered towards the Andrastean faith and believed in the Maker more than most. But she had never intended to devote her life to enforcing religious law. She was fully aware of the dangers magic posed – at fourteen, she had almost made friends with a mage girl while waiting for Mother outside the First Enchanter's office. Two weeks later, she got taken to see a Harrowing. Just for telling Mother that the firefly-like sparks the girl had conjured up were pretty.

Illyria didn't hate mages. She didn't see them as barely-trained attack beasts to be unleashed only at the hour of greatest need. She had more than pity for them; she had sympathy for them.

She, too, hadn't chosen the life that was being prepared for her. Her mother had never been overly subtle about things, but her pride at how well she wielded her sword and how easily she quoted the Chant betrayed her time and time again. And this was before Illyria had turned twenty, whereupon she had been told that her basic combat training was all but complete… and that she could now move on to the more difficult part; combat against magic users.

There was no need to even say the words. And, in one moment, Illyria had forgotten all the stoicism she had been raised with and had the first true argument with her mother. She didn't want to be a templar. She didn't want to devote her life to the ideals of the Chantry. She wanted to find her own path, as well as she loved the Maker and valued her mother's good opinion.

It had gone about as well as if she had announced her unconditional love for the First Enchanter on the spot. Illyria spent that night in the Chantry, not praying these "absurd" thoughts away, but wondering if it was possible to escape the noose tightening around her. Today, having avoided the trap for so long, Illyria knew the dance couldn't possibly last forever, just like her training routine.

Her movements were fluid, elegant and deadly. Too bad that the emphasis in her training had been put on the last one.

"Lady Stannard."

The title no longer made her wince and break her kata; trying to get these skittish templars to call her Illyria would require ten times the patience she possessed. She finished her movements, then turned to see who was calling.

After the disaster of the Fereldan Circle of Magi, Cullen had been put through something akin to therapy to deal with his demons – at least, what the Chantry would call therapy. Meaning a vigil with the Chant repeated ad nauseum, or until one could no longer hear anything but the words. It hadn't been enough for him. He could no longer function in the vicinity of the Tower, or even near Fereldan mages. They had been saved and set free to help against the Blight by the one who had so cruelly taken his heart without realizing it.

Unstable templars were an embarrassment to the order. And retired templars could be a target for ridicule. The Kirkwall Circle required new power after the Blight – this provided the perfect excuse for Greagoir to be rid of him, as an escort to their mages, along with other, more stable knights. Miraculously, leaving Ferelden had worked. The cloud of madness left Cullen's mind and he joyfully understood that things in Kirkwall were run more akin to his line of thinking than in Ferelden. And there were no mages who looked at a templar with kindness here.

The only kindness in the Gallows came from the Knight-Commander's daughter, who displayed it to everyone. Cullen had been surprised to find out templars were allowed to have families in the Free Marches, but at first thoroughly perplexed as to how it could be allowed for their commander's daughter to be so obviously sighed after by the majority of his fellows – to put it mildly. Meredith was akin to a demi-goddess in the eyes of some templars; her daughter was thus sacrosanct. But still the sighing and daydreaming persisted, nowhere close to all of it being due to hopes of climbing ranks. And it wasn't as if they were foolish enough to actually entertain thoughts of anything beyond admiration from afar.

Cullen had ample experience with unrequited desire that burned shamelessly for years. He had promised himself never to allow such a thing to happen to him again, though it was more difficult with Lady Stannard. She was human, she was as close to being a templar as one could get without swearing the oath and her lips-

"Serah Cullen." she smiled effortlessly, her coral lips parting to show a hint of teeth. "I bid you good morning."

That road left to misery and possibly self-imposed self-flagellation. It was better not to take it.

"Good morning to you as well, m'lady." Lowering his eyes was a good way of looking away, though it did mean momentarily being subjected to seeing the remainder of her in one brief flash. "I am bid to tell you that the Knight-Commander has business to attend to this morning and cannot lead the training session of the newest recruits. I am led to understand she wished for you to join them."

Illyria pursed her lips, but felt a wave of relief wash through her. She hadn't been made aware of this newest development. Obviously her mother had decided that putting her on the spot in front of other templars would force her to accept the invitation. A sneaky, underhanded tactic unworthy of a knight – but Mother didn't care about honor or nobility, as long as she achieved her ends.

Still, if Mother was sending such information through the Knight-Captain, it was serious. Good. She didn't yet have to face the music and could stall a little longer. Or she could do the reasonable thing, do it the way she was brought up to.

"Indeed, serah. Did she say where she was headed?" She could face the problem head-on, weapon at the ready.

"I believe the business involved the Circle." What a careful way of putting it. The Fereldan templar had always appealed to Illyria. He was much more guarded than the others, more quietly devoted, but also very earnest in his devotion. "Apparently, the First Enchanter had received some sort of package that was hazardous in some manner – I have no details."

Illyria felt a triumphant smirk overtake her expression. Sometimes, it was useful to be able to convince templars to cooperate by sheer resemblance to their commander. "Thank you, Knight-Captain." she said firmly, meaning every word. "I have a few words for my mother that must be shared without delay."

"Are you certain that's wise, m'lady?" Bless his proper manners, the Fereldan was trying to be protective of her. "I'm certain you would be welcome to join the session nonetheless and the Commander's business rarely allows for interruptions of any kind."

"Tell you what. You apologize to whichever Knight-Lieutenant is running the training on my behalf, as urgent business calls me to my mother's side and I promise to show you how I parried Serah Emeric's finishing move. Deal?"

The templar reddened a little around the ears. No wonder – Illyria was especially proud of having figured out the famously unbeatable move and gotten the upper hand in her last duel with the skilled warrior.

"I-if you could, please forego mentioning my help to the Knight-Commander."

Cat, here's your bag.

Before the poor man could even fully notice her grateful smile, Illyria had slung her shield over her shoulder and was rushing off. She trained more than most of the poor sods in the courtyard, anyway; Knight-Commander Meredith's daughter was never allowed to be second best, even if it meant having few friends, studying and training from dusk 'til dawn and having her chance of meeting a man who wouldn't scream like a little girl at the sight of her mother's sword reduced to nil.

Illyria had spent all of her childhood in the Gallows, so finding her way towards her mother's office was basically second nature. She could hear the stern voices down the hallway as she approached; all others nearby were scurrying out of sight or trying their best to be as small and insignificant as possible.

Despite frequent spats, or maybe because of them, her mother and the First Enchanter worked well together. Given the frequency of these spats, Illyria had also overheard some speculations over the years that her father was perhaps close than she knew. Of course, the same people also speculated that hers had been an immaculate conception.

"-to screen those refugees more thoroughly! Don't you dare tell me the two aren't connected, not with this insult to common sense here!" Dear Mother, always reacting with such grace.

"It would be possible if only your templars actually allowed my people to interact with the populace, Knight-Commander. You cannot expect me to see if there are any apostates among the Fereldans from here. And isn't spotting those your job?"

Illyria didn't have the opportunity to make quite the dramatic entrance she was hoping for. The office door was nearly wide open, giving a fine view of the Knight-Commander rounding up on her counterpart with all the ferocity of a jilted debt collector.

"Would you have these mages turn to blood magic because they cannot enter the city, or find food once they do? Tread with care, Orsino. I am thinking of the safety of all citizens, those under your responsibility including!"

"Perhaps you should see to your main responsibility first, Knight-Commander." Illyria rather liked the First Enchanter. He was one of the few mages who didn't treat her like most templars treated them – a sloppily constructed explosive cask without any means of being disarmed. Still, she thought this little jab hadn't exactly been for her benefit, because it meant turning the full force of Mother's rant on her.

True enough, the Knight-Commander whirled to follow the elf's eyes. Years of experience allowed Illyria to easily discern that this battle would be a hard one. The opening blow had to be precise.

"Greetings, Mother, First Enchanter. Can I be of any assistance to you? I'm afraid all the more qualified help has fled by now."

The templar commander was not amused. "You're supposed to be training with Knight-Lieutenant Betris right now. I specifically instructed you to be given a place in the more advanced class. Why are you here?"

"Forgive me, Mother, but I was not informed that my attendance was required among the recruits. It would be wrong of an outsider to the Order to impose."

Orsino was clearly enjoying the stare-off between mother and daughter, though he had the decency to pretend not to.

"I will have no more protestations on the matter, Illyria." There had never been any pet names in the Stannard family, no abbreviations. "You have presented me with no plausible alternative to an excellent future thus far."

"With all due respect, Mother, I have never had the opportunity."

"I will not have this conversation here." Being raised by the Knight-Commander often meant that the line between that and someone she could call Mother often blurred for Illyria. "Return to the training grounds and report for the next session. I have duties to attend to."

"Perhaps Lady Stannard would be able to help us with our predicament, Knight-Commander." Orsino suggested unexpectedly. "Seeing your work first-hand would no doubt show her the importance of proper attention to the influx of foreigners to our city."

Illyria knew about the Blight across the sea and saw refugees from beyond the walls every day, even from Hightown. But still, it had to be far more desperate back there than she thought if these two believed mages would willingly come to Kirkwall.

"Absolutely not. These apostates will be dealt with in the traditional manner – and you will leave my daughter out of this."

The First Enchanter raised a tentative eyebrow. "My apologies, Knight-Commander. I was under the impression that sending a capable warrior without the templar insignia that would create panic among the Fereldans would be a way to approach these people peacefully. Unless, of course, the traditional manner is to hunt down penniless refugees for daring to smuggle in a letter."

Illyria spotted the thing on his desk – it stood out like a sore thumb. The material tried very hard to resemble parchment, but was a long way from matching even the cheapest variety in quality. The ink was also obviously cheap and thin, but the script was hardly one of a barely-literate peasant trying to remember how to spell five-and-more letter words.

"A letter? There are apostates among the refugees?" She actually found herself somewhat excited, if for the wrong reasons. If there were apostates around, there was no way her mother would ever find the time to focus on getting her to heel.

"Desperation drives us to many things we wouldn't dare otherwise." Orsino answered her unspoken question rather darkly.

Mother gave the First Enchanter a thoroughly dirty look, filled with promises of retribution. Yet she spoke to Illyria next. "This is templar business, child. I believe you were in the middle of trying to make a point of your unwillingness to get involved in the profession."

Translation: there was no chance she could have it both ways. Illyria would have loved the opportunity to get out of the Gallows; Hightown was her life. She barely remembered some of the streets in the less respectable districts and had never yet been to places like Darktown. It would be the ideal opportunity to prove to her mother that there was no need for her to be a templar in order to be an effective warrior.

But her moment of sulking and looking away allowed her to stare at the neat writing more carefully. It was even turned to her, as Mother had obviously snatched it out of Orsino's hands for a closer look.

_To the revered and most respectable… we implore you… our need is as great as that of any unfortunate… reduced to poverty in the docks or Darktown, if we can pass the gates at all… your support would prove invaluable…_

Ah, and there was the reason why Mother was so angry – petitioners were one thing, but this could be read as outright trying to get the Circle to support foreign apostates. Still, from what Illyria could briefly see, this was a far cry from the ramblings of a half-crazed, blood-lusting, baby-eating abomination Mother had taught her to expect when one mentioned the word "apostate." These were the words of a person with education and no small degree of conviction.

Unfortunately, Mother's hawk-like sight was legendary and she immediately recognized the danger of her child being subjected to what was essentially pro-mage propaganda.

"We will have words about your future and your insolence later. And I want those refugees thoroughly examined for any sign of magic. I will not have apostates running rampant in my city. We will weed them out, with your help or without it." The Knight-Commander stalked out of the office like a tiger on the prowl, clearly expecting her daughter to follow.

Illyria almost missed the odd look the First Enchanter spared her, but she couldn't discern if he was trying to get her to placate her mother or dash into Darktown to find these supposed apostates before they could be crushed under her mother's heel. However, she was smart enough to understand when her mother had been pushed past a certain point… and she knew well that if she was to escape the templar sword hanging by a thread above her, she couldn't afford to antagonize her yet.

She still ended up in the templar class an hour later, despite – or because of – her protestations. In her anger, she ended up beating the snot out of her fellow trainees, who were already reluctant to strike with their full strength at the Knight-Commander's daughter. She intended to prove to everyone that she didn't have the temperament to become a proper templar and thus allowed all her frustration to fuel her fighting style.

Not even the Knight-Lieutenant could find a flaw to harp on, though perhaps he was too frightened of her resemblance to her mother at that instant. Thus, a glowing recommendation, as far as anyone other than her was concerned. For her mother, this was enough of an argument for the idea that she was just going through a phase of unable to accept where her talent lay.

Illyria wasn't at all surprised to find herself wandering through the Hightown market at night. There were more than enough guardsmen around and in her plate armor, she was hardly an easy target for any criminal. It wasn't as if Mother would care much about what she did as long as she was ready for practice in the morning at the crack of dawn.

The letter stuck in her mind, though. Not because she was a particular fan of foreigners – she was a Marsher, born and bred, never having left Kirkwall, really. She wasn't even trying to fulfill Orsino's expectations and try to prove to Mother that templars were obsolete – on the contrary, they were still as important as ever. But being trapped… their situations weren't anywhere near the same, of course, but still…

Sympathy was also an undesirable quality for a templar. Illyria easily found herself walking towards the nearest gates.

Hightown by night was a breeze; well-guarded, barely disturbed and quiet. Crime rate tended to be low and everyone worth their salt knew that if they actually had the gall to assault the Knight-Commander's unmistakable daughter, their days were more or less numbered. So Illyria wasn't at all bothered by walking alone in the dark.

The further down one went, the odder it became, with less white marble and more dirt. Illyria actually felt somewhat childishly daring as she passed the entrances to the lower levels. The easiest way to leave the city meant going through the broadest squares of Hightown, but it was still far closer to unknown territory for her than her usual routine. Her time was divided between the Chantry, her home not far away and the Gallows, with few changes. She barely remembered what the main gates actually looked like.

Coming at night was a genius idea for more than one reason. Aside from actually having the time to do this without risking being hunted by every available templar in the city, she didn't have to worry about being begged by a swarm of refugees to be let into the place. There were also far fewer guards to remember her face – not that Mother would lower herself to dealings with the City Guard.

She was no queen of stealth, but Illyria hadn't survived sane in a templar household for this long without knowing how to disappear when she couldn't take things any longer. Sleepy guards were hardly noteworthy opponents – besides, if they caught her, they would recognize her, if only by the expensive cut of her armor.

The refugees had made a literal camp for themselves in front of the gates. Some of them were blessed with the luxury of tents; ratty old things, most of them, army leftovers or simply rags on sticks. Others had to make do with old blankets and softer spots on the ground. There were some fires burning around quietly, but conversation was scarce. Energy had to be saved up for another confrontation with the guards the next day, and the day after that.

Disappointingly, Illyria didn't see any dogs around. That was the first thing one learned about Ferelden; that their dogs were essential for every aspect of their life. But there seemed to be more urchins snoring around than dogs. Pity.

She didn't even know what she was looking for. She had no idea what apostate mages might dress like. Certainly not in Circle robes; that would be a laugh. Something to blend it. But then again, none of the dirty refugees looked particularly powerful or fearsome. Even the small stray cat mewling not far away looked ferocious in comparison to some of them. Not for long, though; with the agility of habit, a pair of refugees attempted to catch it for a late dinner, if Illyria heard correctly. Distasteful.

Apostates – learned people in general – hiding here? No, it had to be some jest from a Circle mage. She had wasted her time on that account. But it still was interesting to see this place.

"…why we can't just fight our way in! A few guardsmen'll never stand a chance…"

But there were others present, a variety of soldiers – or mercenaries – that were apparently growing restless. The camp had to be a melting pot by day. No wonder Mother was so put out about the entire situation – even less wonder that she thought mages here might become too desperate and snap. Other than those brief disturbances, though, there was nothing worth mentioning within sight. Illyria didn't know what she had been expecting… but this wasn't it.

A group of dwarves in oddly angular armor also wasn't the case.

There were many surface dwarves in Kirkwall – merchants and crafters, usually, an indispensable part of the trade life. Even Illyria, who hardly lacked for money, had to save up money if she wanted runes to be imbued in her armor. These dwarves were encased in foreign armor, with more angular symbols than she could ever remember seeing. And, in their midst, a truly wretched-looking elven family, which appeared to be trying to reason with one of the armored thugs.

"-trying to weasel your way out of a bargain? We got you this far and now you have the chance to work off your debt. You get in, you work for us."

"We will, ser, but please, spare my daughter." the obvious father was saying, with his wife nodding as if her life depended on it. "She hasn't yet seen ten summers."

"Exactly." the drawf's sneer was audible even through his helmet. "The littlest fingers can reach into the tightest pockets." The little girl hiding behind her parents was clutching a patched stuffed lamb, looking one step away from bawling her eyes out. "You weren't taken here because of my fetish for elven beggars. Although," Here, the wife trembled, though the dwarf's scrutiny was almost mechanical. "We could see if someone else in the city doesn't have such tastes."

That was more than enough for Illyria. She walked into the light with all the confidence of Kirkwall's best fighter, giving the dwarves quite a scare with her hand gently resting on the pommel of her sword. But she wasn't wearing a guard uniform and she was just one human woman.

"This is a private conversation, human." the dwarven ringleader gritted out, "Unless you've got coin enough, I suggest you try to get another ticket into the city. We've blades enough without your kind plaguing our territory."

Threats, criminality, attempted slavery and prostitution… oh, she was decidedly in luck here. "I have another idea. How about you and your cronies get lost while I'm asking nicely and thus get to keep your beards." For good measure, she patted her sword twice, in case they missed it.

In Kirkwall, this would be enough for anyone reasonable to get the message. But she wasn't in Kirkwall now, not truly, and things worked differently on unfamiliar ground.

"We've got ourselves a hero, boys! Tell me, _hero_, think your gear and your head will be enough to pay back for insults to the Carta? Or maybe it's just a whore hiding behind metal, looking to be put in her proper place."

No one had ever spoken to her so brazenly, nor challenged her so openly. Illyria didn't really have much capacity for diplomacy when encountering something so bizarre – not that it would have helped her much. There were swords being drawn and, for a trained warrior, that meant instinct was taking over.

Of course, fighting Lowtown thugs was somewhat different from the controlled environment of training duels, no matter how people were involved. Templars fought exclusively with swords, thus the switch to maces and axes was somewhat confusing for her practiced movements. Still, these were obviously self-trained fighters with little discipline or coordination.

As a relative lightweight compared to the standard burly recruits, Illyria's fighting style was heavily reliant on speed and momentum. The Carta dwarves were used to fighting by giving their opponent's skull one solid whack. Moving between them was like a nug navigating its way around a herd of brontos. But it was nearly impossible to keep the noise down, because the dwarves clearly threw themselves into everything they did with gusto. The elven family had scrambled to the side, but a collapsing tent scared the little girl, who apparently forgot about the danger of getting between sharp, colliding weapons and made a beeline for anywhere but where she was standing. Illyria managed to avoid striking anywhere near her, but no one else was nearly as gentle. A hammer-wielding dwarf all but slammed the whimpering child out of the way with an almost off-hand notion, sending her tumbling towards the nearest fireplace.

Illyria heard a scream from the child's mother, which alerted her to the girl's trouble. But this momentary hesitation made her lower her shield from its intended position. She heard the arrow before she felt it, and then almost pirouetted on the spot due to the force applied to the place where two of her armor plates met on her shoulder. Dwarven archers – the world really had to be turning upside down, she thought, even as her knees wobbled and the polished sword in her hand surrendered to gravity. The world dimmed for a moment, but the axe ready to descend upon her neck blocked her view from the elf child's fate.

The force of impact against her now improperly-held shield was bone-shattering, but the brief opening before the heavy weapon could descend again allowed her to smash it into the dwarf's crotch. The armor wasn't so strong there and her shield had a pointy end. Satisfying yell from the dwarf aside, she couldn't sustain this long with two injured arms. The comfortingly warm sheen of sweat on her forehead was turning cold. Maker, she was going to end up dead in a ditch, stripped of her armor and possibly used as target practice by some slum thugs. Way to prove herself capable of defending people without having to hide behind Mother's sword.

Still, she raised the shield weakly, fighting the urge to tear the arrow out of her shoulder. She had enough sense to understand it was stopping her from bleeding out, though it also meant she couldn't make a grab for her weapon. The dwarf intent on beheading her was stumbling backwards, roaring profanities left and right. Out of the eight-or-so Carta hirelings, only that one and the archer were left standing, the others littering the ground or possibly having slunk away into the gutter once more. Illyria could still defend herself somewhat, but attacking was an issue, especially at such a distance. The archer was preparing another shot – oh, it was a crossbow, not a full-fledged bow, which explained the shortness of the arrow, Illyria thought half-deliriously – which would likely be all that was necessary.

Then, the elf woman's cries turned into something filled with utter joyous relief and Illyria barely saw the child running towards her, crying all the way. And suddenly, theirs were the only cries. The injured dwarf rasped out a breath and something made a distinctly bone-crunching sound as it hit the dirt, rolling in a mass of dirty hair and half-fitting helmet. The crossbowman was also lying on the ground, blood gushing out of the general vicinity of his chest. Not even dwarven armor could protect against being impaled at close distance, though it was possible that the back of it also wasn't reinforced enough to withstand it.

Illyria had managed to stick the pointy end of her shield deep enough into the ground to be able to lean against it (when had she actually dropped to her knees? Her memory was a bit fuzzy on that account.), but it wasn't enough to support her for long. Not with the way-

"Don't go there, stay with me!"

Oh, right – she could barely feel the shield on her arm anymore. She must have stopped clutching to it at some point. She didn't remember any humans being around during the fight, though. The elves were apparently too frightened of her to even attempt to help her, let alone to summon other help. Maybe some of the mercenaries had overheard and wanted to cash in on helping?

No, why would they want her awake in that case? She didn't mind all that much, since the shield getting removed was hurting her arm and it was actually comfortable to not have to do anything and be supported by someone else. Such proximity to another person was downright unprecedented for her, if it didn't involve some kind of combat move. She tried to make her eyes focus on her caretaker's face, her body temperature now fluctuating back towards odd, sticky warmth.

"Talk to me, you're not allowed to sleep yet." But maybe that was the natural reaction to close proximity to surprisingly handsome rescuers. The trashy romance novels she kept finding in Mother's quarters whenever she was gone (and which she always denied being hers) would suggest that this was the case. Apparently, the reality involved far more dirt and grime, but even that wasn't enough to completely conceal appealing features. "What's your name?"

She tried to answer, but the comfortable drowsiness caused the syllables to be jumbled into something almost different. Still, it was better than nothing. "'Lyria… am I…?"

"That's a pretty name for a beautiful lady. Look at me, Lyria." She obeyed easily, because her head was sort of being disobedient today. The flattery was almost flat, meant only to distract her. But coming from someone with such gentle concern in his face, it couldn't be all bad. "You took a bad hit here, and I'm going to have to remove the arrow. It'll hurt for a moment, but I have to get it out of your arm. Do you understand?"

Having never been hit with an arrow before, Illyria couldn't exactly discern if it was normal for her vision to be swimming in an unearthly glow, but vaguely remembered that people who didn't fight fair were probably quite capable of poisoning an arrow or two. She could also feel hands running along her face, from her forehead to her cheeks. Something leathery was also touching her lips, though without any force.

"Do you think you could bite down on this strap of leather for me, Lyria? Just open your mouth and bite down, please. I don't want you breaking your teeth if you intend to be a hero about this." She tried to say that she was hardly a hero, but her rescuer seized the moment and placed the leather between her teeth. He kept saying other things, comforting things, but even focusing on his voice was getting somewhat difficult. Maker help her, did he have to talk so loud? "Just breathe, do you hear me, keep breathing, you'll be fine in a moment."

When the bolt came out a moment later, it was difficult to believe this was anything but a comforting lie. Injuries on the training field were inevitable, but pain like this was nearly unimaginable. And that was with her senses dulled. In fact, Illyria was quite certain she had blacked out for at least an hour when she felt consciousness stirring in her thoughts later on. She was no longer being held by anyone; there was something softer than the ground under her head, though not the superb comfort of her bed that would lead her to dismiss the fight and injury as a mere dream. There was a fire crackling nearby and the wetness on her forehead was no longer sweat, but a hopefully clean rag soaked in water. The leather was also gone from her mouth, though she could still taste it.

Forgetting all about her previous injury, she attempted to sit up and succeeded almost without trouble. Most of her upper armor had been stripped off, but she spotted it by the fire, no longer dirt and bloodstained. Either she had imagined the dwarves or someone had taken the time to clean it for her. The elves were nowhere in sight, though she hadn't truly expected them to stay.

"You shouldn't be trying to get up so soon." So she hadn't dreamed the voice. The man looked somewhat less impressive when she wasn't half-hallucinating, but then she noticed that he was actually carrying a stuffed pet lamb, obviously washed, back to the camp. The Fereldan could have been wearing gold and silver from head to toe instead of his worn coat with the odd decoration of feather pauldrons and boots stained with the dirt of many roads and she wouldn't have cared anymore. That gesture touched something in her, if only a little.

It made it a bit easier to find her voice, actually. "How long was I out?"

"About four hours. Far past Vanora's bedtime, otherwise she'd probably have stayed up with you. I had to promise you'd get to keep Ser Eilrys for the night as company." he said, presenting the stuffed lamb as if it were a guest. The man's manner was pleasant, almost gentle, and, best of all, he didn't seem intent on asking her questions. "I figured you'd be the kind of lady who'd prefer clean bedfellows, however. What are heroes without hygiene, after all?"

"Fools who get lucky." Her left arm was tied in something akin to a cast, but she couldn't feel pain from underneath. It was more like a firmly tied bandage. Her right shoulder, though, was thoroughly wrapped. "You helped me. You saved my life."

In the firelight, it seemed almost as if his ears reddened a little, but then the Fereldan was the image of composure. "As you saved the lives of others tonight. So you can just think of it as the Maker rewarding your good deeds." Handing her the toy, he proceeded to remove the wrapping from her shield arm and check on the other. "I believe you won't have to worry about any lasting damage. Give it a day or two and you'll be back to normal."

"I thought this was broken." Illyria could feel her fingers; she could even move them. Surely the dwarf had hit her harder than that.

And her miracle healer almost looked sheepish about it, but acted as if it were no big thing. "The poison would have made you feel that way before the effects took hold. Soldier's bane works quickly, but doesn't last too long. Usually, there is no need for it."

Illyria was growing somewhat aware that, in order to bandage her shoulder, most of the padding under her armor and parts of her undershirt had to have been removed. Unwittingly, she felt herself burning up around the cheeks once again. With her Mother's shadow looming over her shoulder all the time, there wasn't a man in Kirkwall who'd try courting her, let alone try to see her naked. The generally known if unwelcome jest in Kirkwall was that only one thing was more carefully guarded than the Gallows – three guesses as to whose virginity that would be. Not that she hadn't wondered or imagined, but… well.

But the Fereldan didn't have the slightest idea who she was, which was an oddly gratifying thought. She didn't have to play any part for him. Though she found herself wondering if she should; her mother would kill her, but from this small distance between them, she could see that it wasn't just the lack of light – her rescuer was indeed handsome, if in the need of some rest and a shave.

Apparently, he was also observant, because he gave her a small but reassuring smile. "I hope you'll forgive me for not paying much attention to what little I had to see. My concern was focused on ensuring your arm's continued functionality."

It certainly didn't lessen Illyria's blush, but she decided to veer away from that topic. "Thank you. I owe you- well, I'll be able to hold a sword again thanks to you. That means a lot to me." Not to mention Mother would kill her if she couldn't.

"What you did for that family meant much more. The remains of the Carta have started cracking down on those that paid them to get across the sea." The healer rewrapped her shoulder more securely – Illyria couldn't turn her head fully, but she still felt the wound there. "It might show those thugs that intimidating refugees to do their bidding doesn't always work."

"Carta?" That word was unfamiliar to Illyria. She could guess, though. "Kirkwall has its own thieves' guild already. I can't imagine the Coterie will allow a band of Fereldans step on their toes so easily."

"Ah, I thought you looked healthier than a refugee. Much cleaner, too – Ser Eilrys really had to pull her weight to measure up. If I may ask, what is a Kirkwall lady doing among us lowly refugees at nighttime? Not that beautiful vigilantes are unappreciated in these parts, believe me. But most people here are trying to get into the city, not leave it."

Illyria didn't really want to identify herself or delve too deeply about her reasons for being here. Come to think of it, she had sort of lost sight of them already. "I don't know myself. I wanted to see what it was like, I suppose. Not that I've come to gawk or anything." she added quickly, understanding how that sounded. "But… I just wanted to help somehow."

"That isn't a sentiment many people would share." The bandage was rewrapped and the careful hands deftly retreated. Illyria was almost disappointed. "Which makes it all the more admirable. A little daring, but admirable all the same. I'd advise against putting the armor back on, but I suppose it's a better solution than carrying it back to Kirkwall. I'm afraid I'll have to be rude and not offer to carry it back for you. Breaking and entering is not very popular in these parts, I understand."

"Thank you. I can't repay you as you deserve. Do you have relatives in the city, perchance? I could deliver a message for you, at least." She desperately wished she could convince Mother to let this one man enter the city, but that would cause so many inconvenient questions.

"I'm afraid the person I'm here to see would be difficult to reach. And I don't mean to impose on your kindness. You owe me nothing." He said it so earnestly, Illyria actually believed it. Anyone in the city would have jumped at the chance to have a favor from her. "If all my patients were like you, I should count myself fortunate, Lyria."

"Illyria." she corrected, "And you never did tell me your name."

"Well, it's the task of us lowly peasants to defer introductions to the nobility in the room – or should I say vicinity in this case? I believe I've accomplished that, so I'm allowed to speak for myself. Unless Ser Eilrys objects." the Fereldan noted, nodding respectfully to the stuffed lamb. Illyria had to laugh quietly. "Anders is my name. No title attached."


	2. Chapter 2

**o.O.o**

**Two**

**o.O.o**

"Thank you, Anders." The name was decidedly foreign, though not unpleasant. He actually looked surprised, but covered it up with a smile.

"Such gratitude; you're going to spoil me. There," With one tug on the knot, Illyria's shoulder was rewrapped securely. "All done. Don't exert yourself for a few days and it should be good as new before you know it."

"Is that necessary?" Mother wouldn't rest until she knew everything if she were to skip training. "I mean, it's mostly healed, isn't it? The poultices or whatever you put on it worked."

As he moved to sit at a polite distance from her, she could swear something odd passed through Anders's face. But it was gone too quickly. "Yes, it worked, but it's a fresh injury nonetheless. You won't lose your skills if you just take it easy for a few days, I can vouch for that."

"I know that, believe me. But my- it will be suspicious to some people close to me if I change my routine." She didn't want to mention her ties to the templar order, real or speculated. "And I don't want them knowing about my coming here."

After the display of reassurance, seeing Anders frown was peculiar. "A bolt to the shoulder isn't an injury easily concealed. I don't suppose it's a common malady in the rich parts of the city… and I unfortunately don't see you managing to play the part of the dainty noble lady too well."

"Not without Mother summoning several priests to exorcise me, no." Maker, there she went again. "Unless you can speed up time, I'll just have to grin and bear it."

"Well, I can hardly stop someone so determined." The look in his eyes said quite plainly what he thought about the idea. This man was the genuine article, not some charlatan with medicine made of rabbit droppings. "But if you don't wish to reveal your injury to others, it doesn't seem like a viable strategy. Self-mutilation isn't worth any prize, believe me."

The idea of reopening her injury was painful in itself, but it also stirred up her train of thought once again. "Unless I happen to know an excellent healer. Who would perhaps have a weakness for Kirkwall cuisine." After all, she couldn't expect something for nothing more than once. "I doubt the guards here pay much attention to how people here are actually doing, assuming they don't riot. And I've heard all about Fereldan cooking, so I'm positive whatever I bring will be an improvement."

"Oh, let's all slander the penniless refugee's homeland. What great fun!" But Anders looked genuinely taken aback when he got past the end of her babbling. "I don't need anything in return for helping the deserving," His stomach was of a different opinion, though, losing no time in pointing out how scrawny he looked for his impressive height. "But I'll swallow my pride here and admit that sounds wonderful. Just no lamb, please. We wouldn't want to scandalize Ser Eilrys." he added in a stage whisper, not forgetting to carefully cover the stuffed lamb's ears.

Illyria couldn't remember having this much reason to laugh in ages. "So is that why you've come to Kirkwall? To starve yourself out of altruism towards innocent sheep?"

"You forgot looking roguishly handsome while doing it. Actually, now that I think about it, starvation is kind of counterproductive to that plan." Anders pointed out sagely, scratching his knee. It was a wonder the motion didn't leave behind a hole in the fabric; his clothes were worn and patched enough for that. "No, I'm mainly here to visit a friend. I received some worrying news and I had to come see it for myself. With the Blight in such recent memory, few people concern themselves with those who fled to other lands."

Such devotion for a friend – or a lover, perhaps, which triggered an odd sinking feeling – was something admirable. She said as much (minus the lover part, of course), as that would have been silly and nosy, and they briefly shared irrelevant information about the situation beyond the walls and over the sea. The Blight was indeed over, as far as anyone knew, Ferelden was stabilizing under a new monarch and a host of people who didn't want to wait for the situation to get better, seeking the greener grass abroad. Anders didn't say if this included him.

The night was passing, though; Illyria wasn't tired, though she was told the poison still hadn't left her system entirely. She needed to return home and try not to mess up practice in a few hours, if she was to get in unnoticed. Anders looked a bit dejected when she reluctantly announced her intention. She had certainly shared less than she had received, or so she thought.

"I'll return tomorrow." she repeated, because was had the slightest suspicion that Anders didn't fully believe her. "I wouldn't want Vanora to think I abandoned Ser Eilrys like that."

"That would be treason of the highest order." Without Illyria asking for it, Anders got up and proceeded to help her re-strap the discarded armor to its proper place, though more loosely than it should. "They owe you their lives and know it. They're a little shy about receiving kindness from humans… most don't think twice about treating elves like second-class citizens."

"They eat, drink and think just like we do – they have hopes, fears, strengths and weaknesses like us. I think I'm secure enough in my identity as a human not to have to resort to belittling others who are different from me."

Anders had to take care to not fasten the metal around her upper arm far too tightly. Open mindedness was rare, no matter what the land. It was all too easy to forget that just because he had phrased it in a way that inquired about Illyria's feelings to oppression in general, and that the answer could directly be interpreted as a willingness to accept some slight differences in others.

The way she had jumped in to intervene without any intention of gain – his current willingness to help the needy without hope for a reward was at least partly Justice's influence. This woman definitely wasn't poor, but it was often the richest who were the most greedy about their wealth. And risking life and limb – literally – for elves… it was unexpected, refreshing and a bit beautiful.

He could admire a person and their deeds without selfish desires. Even Justice approved of that much, even if he didn't understand or care that it was significant that Illyria was still sitting with him, smiling as much as her discomfort allowed and offering to return (with food, no less).

The decision not to entirely heal her shoulder had been a pragmatic one. She wouldn't remember the broken arm due to the poison's daze on her senses, but a crossbow hit was more difficult to forget.

Anders had used more magic than intended to slay the remaining dwarves and heal the worst of her injuries. So far, she hadn't asked the most obvious questions, but revealing himself as a mage in front of a stranger was inconvenient, no matter how helpful they were or how difficult it had actually been to maintain focus on her injury alone when removing her armor.

Thank the Maker for that poison knocking out her senses, else he'd be collecting his teeth from the floor right now. That shield of hers was heavy and she waved it around like it was made of parchment. You'd never guess from the awkward way she was petting the stuffed toy still in her lap.

"All done." Fortunately, too, because cleanness had a very distracting scent, especially in a camp full of smelly refugees. "Are you certain you'll make it? The poison hasn't yet completely left your system. The effects have worn off, but it'll take a few more hours. And the guard here isn't exactly lax even at nighttime. It's been attempted."

Of course, other refugees would mob her if they saw her get past and she did mention possible trouble with family. Anders found himself somewhat curious. Wardens shed family names and he had done so before being conscripted, but Illyria didn't know those things. Though her silence on the subject of family names wasn't surprising.

She didn't look at all worried and managed to get up without his help, though Anders was ready to help. "I'll be fine. Please return Ser Eilrys to Lady Vanora - I'm sure they can't bear to be parted for much longer. He's fulfilled any knightly duty towards me in chaperoning me through the night."

Anders could insist on her keeping the thing as a way of ensuring she returned.

"Very well." he said instead, part of him hoping she wasn't going to come back or reinjure herself. It was enough to know someone like her still existed. Part of him still thought that was utter nonsense, which alone was dangerous.

"Very well." he said instead, part of him hoping she wasn't going to come back or reinjure herself. It was enough to know someone like her still existed. Part of him still thought that was utter nonsense, which alone was dangerous.

Before she left, she stared at him with something close to a glower, as if she could read his mind or sense that he was discounting her word. Clearly not something she was fond of. "I owe you my life. I won't forget that."

How she managed to make gratitude sound almost like a threat had to be a talent, Anders assumed. Justice spoke that way, more often than not, in the brief moments when their thoughts weren't entirely united. Her armored gloves were a blessing when she returned the stuffed lamb to him, because the harsh metal was enough to discern that no, he wasn't imagining this. Perhaps his ideas weren't entirely helpless in Kirkwall, of all places. The Maker had a sense of humor.

"I'm not expecting you to. I just don't want you needlessly putting yourself in jeopardy. People like you are needed."

"It's always nice to feel appreciated." Illyria said, the mask of steel slipping away from her features.

**o.O.o**

It didn't settle back there for the entire following day.

Injury aside, she made it back home without any trouble. The few servants in her home were used to her peculiar comings and goings, so it didn't bother them. Illyria couldn't even manage to take her armor off, though. Her shoulder, though half-healed, hurt if moved too much. She'd have to put it back on anyway and sleep just wouldn't come, so she spent the remaining hours of darkness trying to count stuffed sheep.

Needless to say, when she arrived at the training grounds, she was barely aware of the usual greetings aimed in her direction. But at least she had a viable strategy to cover up her current inability to do much more with her sword than pop a few bubbles. Good equipment required proper care and with her training schedule, it wasn't so surprising that she'd need to have her blade sharpened by the order's smith more often than the others.

Her thoughts kept straying back to the refugee encampment. Hopefully, she had dealt with all of the extortionists and those elves would be left alone now. And the little girl not too disappointed to not see her there, though why Illyria had been offered the company of such a well-loved toy, she couldn't completely fathom. That she thought of Anders went without saying, though now that her thoughts were completely lucid, she began to wonder a bit more about the circumstances of their meeting.

Someone had killed the remaining dwarves, yet she didn't see any weapon anywhere near Anders. His hands also lacked the inevitable calluses weapons training would have left behind – not that many fighters practiced healing, in any case. And she was almost certain that her shield arm felt a little stiff, like when she had had a finger healed after snapping the joint in a ferocious ball game as a child.

It could just be Mother's modus operandi of 'constant vigilance' rubbing off on her, of course – which she dreaded a little – but the memory of Orsino's letter kept nagging at her. As proud as she was about helping, she hadn't left the city to right wrongs. Not entirely, anyway. All the more reason to go back there and find out. Only, how to bring up such a thing? Accusing someone who had helped her of being an apostate was kind of like inviting friends to dinner and then spitting in the pot.

"Lady Stannard, you're not training today?" It was kind of like promising to teach someone a maneuver and then taking your sword to the smith. Maker damn her luck.

"Ah, my apologies, Knight-Captain." Illyria did her best to look mildly sheepish instead of irked about the situation. "I'm used to my own weapon and I'd like to have it properly taken care of before I start today."

"Of course, that is most reasonable of you. Your business yesterday went without problems?" No doubt Mother hadn't returned pleased, given that concerned frown.

Illyria found herself not caring. "As well as could be expected. I have no interest in joining the order. No offense, Serah Cullen."

The apology seemed to unsettle the templar more than the actual refusal, but he didn't have the usual reaction of shock and horror when Illyria made such intentions known.

"That's a great shame, milady. You are an excellent warrior and, well, you have all the predisposition in the world to make a difference for the better." Finish what Mother was starting, he meant. "Might I ask why?"

Now that was a question rarely given to her. "Perhaps I just don't think my path lies that way. There's enough devotion to the Maker in my house for the whole family. Also, I'm no fan of uniforms, myself."

"The Maker never turns away those who come to him with a true heart."

Illyria resisted the urge to scoff, laughing for a second instead. "Did you get Chantry duty this fortnight? Brother Sebastian's sermons are rather heartfelt, I understand." She didn't much want to think about the outspoken but sincere priest who had grown into his role after years of resentment. It was too much of an example of what Mother seemed to hope for her.

There went the tell-tale reddened ears again. "We must all do our duty, no matter how lacking in glamour it might be. Besides, I cherish the days when there isn't a need to hunt down maleficarum. That's when we can show the world that the Chantry's way exists to keep everyone safe."

Cullen had never actually mentioned any kind of details about the slaughter at Lake Calenhad, but all of Thedas was buzzing with word that the templars had lost ground in Ferelden. The new king had granted autonomy to the Circle of Magi as a favor to the victorious archdemon-slayer, a close friend of his. Seeing a mage stop the Blight had apparently made some progress in terms of how her kin were viewed in that country, but the new way of running things there was still regarded as highly experimental.

Kirkwall wasn't going to change anytime soon.

"I went to a Harrowing gone wrong; I understand the dangers." Illyria said when the Knight-Captain seemed to be waiting from some semblance of approval from her. Her thoughts were a bit biased due to last night, so she didn't want to get into a debate about mage rights with anyone so devoted. "Anyway, I know I promised to show you the counterattack, but I'm afraid it'll have to wait a while. Sorry about that."

"There's no need to apologize to me, milady. But perhaps it would be good for you to start familiarizing yourself with other weapons? I understand the comfort of one's own blade, but you might not always have that luxury in actual combat. Basic proficiency with other weapons is invaluable for any warrior."

It was a reasonable suggestion, fully in line with the philosophy the Knight-Commander preached for the order. Besides, seeing Lady Stannard merely sitting and watching the other proceedings in the training grounds was almost unsettling to Cullen. Perhaps the others ought to be grateful for the unexpected – Maker knew they always focused less whenever she was there to be watched – but he had never seen such a driven warrior look so troubled and at the same time content to be lost in her thoughts.

She seemed sad. It was a new and peculiarly human look on her.

"Exactly so." Cullen almost jumped; a woman as tall and encased in armor as the Knight-Commander shouldn't be able to sneak up on people that well. "At ease, Knight-Captain; you may stay. Your suggestion has merit, especially as my daughter apparently has time for idleness and pursuits unfit for her station."

The defiant Lady Stannard usually didn't squirm under her mother's gaze, but for an instant she almost looked panicked. "With all due respect, Mother, I'm comfortable with my current fighting style."

"Your opponents will hardly pay attention to your personal comfort. You have learned all but everything you can about the shield and sword. It's time to move on." the Knight-Commander said mercilessly, citing the example of how he himself had chosen to move on towards the shield after years of using a greatsword. "Knight-Captain, I'd entrust part of the teaching to you. A single talent apparently blinds my child to the wisdom of experience."

Experience. The horror of Kinoch Hold was an _experience_.

Cullen nodded briskly. "If you wish, Knight-Commander, I'd be honored. I could learn much from Lady Stannard myself."

"Not tact or a sense of duty, I imagine." she replied, staring down the indignant glare of her child.

"Mother, I ask permission to follow through with the First Enchanter's suggestion." Lady Stannard blurted out suddenly. Cullen had absolutely no idea what she was talking about, but the Knight-Commander's stare hardened considerably. "I'll undergo the training, if you believe it necessary; I ask this in return."

"Out of the question. You lack the abilities required for such a task, as I told you yesterday. Even if you did as I said, you haven't the experience to delve into Circle politics."

"I am precisely what you require for this. Give me a chance to prove that I don't need-"

"Leave the matter be; and don't be so quick to quote Orsino's words to me. You are naïve to think he doesn't see what a perfect mouthpiece you could be, parroting nonsense wrapped in a layer of hypocrisy. You cannot be neutral, Illyria. No one in this city will ever allow that." For a moment there, the moment was private, and Cullen felt out of place. Especially since the Knight-Commander looked just a touch pained to hear a mage's words come from her daughter's mouth, even if the mage was the First Enchanter.

Lady Stannard, for her part, looked like she'd just swallowed an entire lemon. She didn't argue further, nor did she stalk away like a child denied toys, but her disapproval was evident. Instead, she gave a stiff half-nod, like a disgruntled soldier might. "I will go to the blacksmith and see if there are any claymores available for the day. I will meet you here in an hour, if that suits, Knight-Captain?"

"Of course, Lady Stannard." Maker, the family resemblance was uncanny when anger reigned over her expression. Cullen almost called her Knight-Commander without even thinking about it. "I will be waiting for you."

Sparing one last defiant glance for her mother, the young woman stalked away like a feline on the prowl. If there wasn't a courtyard full of templars and other unwelcome strangers watching them, other words would have been spoken between the family members, without a doubt.

But the Knight-Commander appeared pleased with this outcome, nodding at him briskly. "I expect you to treat my daughter no differently than any other recruit, Knight-Captain. She'll never excel if she doesn't learn her own limitations."

"As you command, Knight-Commander." Cullen could understand driving her own daughter harder than others to wipe away the accusation of favoritism, but hesitated to point out that Lady Stannard could already wipe the floor with almost anyone they chose to throw at her, sometimes regardless of numbers.

The Knight-Commander didn't want her daughter to be everything she was; the Knight-Commander wanted her to be _better_.

It was an honor to have a part in that entrusted to him. Though from what he had seen, Cullen didn't doubt that it would be a very small part. An hour later, Lady Stannard was brandishing a larger sword than ever, though she seemed to be favoring her left arm. He hadn't noticed that before; from the way she used her usual weapon, Cullen had her pegged for right-handed. Or maybe it was just the different balance – he could sympathize with that.

They started slow. Lady Stannard was an exceptional student, even if her expression was more fitting for a member of a suicide squad. Still, her blows were a little weaker than Cullen had expected – which, admittedly, was a lot – and, ever so often, she gripped the sword harder than a seasoned fighter should.

Their lesson was over before he could mention that, but Cullen decided to watch a bit more carefully next time. She was a little reckless. Her experience with a single Harrowing obviously hadn't shaken her belief that mages were little more than, say, people with a disability. He couldn't imagine the Knight-Commander allowing such things for long. It was probably also why she wanted her only child to take the templar vows; Cullen remembered being told that there had been some kind of magic-related tragedy in the family, though no specifics.

**o.O.o**

That evening, Illyria rather felt that her armor was the only thing keeping her arm properly in place. Discovering her hitherto unknown ambidexterity would have been wonderful right about then. Unfortunately, it wouldn't have helped with wielding a two-handed weapon – and she couldn't exactly have refused that offer, with the way Mother had forced her to backpedal into it. Especially since she had made a promise she had to break.

Her shoulder hurt, to put it mildly. A new weapon was always a challenge, especially at the start, and with her upset arm, she was about as graceful as a genlock in high heels. The exertion had reopened the wound, just as Anders had predicted – she didn't have to look. Illyria managed to eat dinner with her left hand alone, not trusting her right. Most of it was going to end up wrapped and delivered elsewhere, of course.

Mother was still dealing with the First Enchanter, as she had promised, and so wouldn't be back for the remainder of the night – though not due to any lewd reasons gossips could think of. Which was nothing out of the ordinary and obviously gave her more than enough time. Putting her on the spot like that in front of someone she liked (zealotry aside); there would be retribution for that eventually. She swore that to herself.

Carrying a bag meant she had to forego her shield for the night; she couldn't possibly take both, not feeling like she had arm-wrestled with an ogre. Nervous politeness aside, Cullen certainly hadn't pulled any punches when it came to her lesson. It wasn't his fault, but Illyria was a little peeved by that. Especially considering her program for the night.

For all of Anders's warnings that the way in was carefully guarded, the way out was decidedly clear. Actually, the few guardsmen around seemed to be relying on the gates and fear of the Knight-Captain to keep refugees outside, apparently. If it wasn't playing in her favor, Illyria would have informed Mother about Jeven's lax policies to get her off own her back for a week or two.

No one bothered her as she made her way through the camp. Those that saw her knew better than to approach an armed knight with a grim face. Thinking about impending confrontations with Mother usually had that effect on people who saw her.

"E-excuse me, m'lady?" Though not all, apparently, if they were determined enough. It was the father of the elven family from yesterday – alone this time and looking less brave than yesterday. "You are the one who saved us from the Carta, aren't you?"

Illyria chased thoughts of her problems away. This wasn't the time or the place. "I was happy to help."

"I don't know how I can even begin to thank you. We didn't have a choice but to take those thugs up for their offer to leave Ferelden. Nobody cares about the fate of a few elves. My wife thanks you as well, but she's trying to get a new blanket for our daughter."

The heavy bag on her left shoulder felt a little lighter and a little heavier at the same time. "Maybe we can help each other this time. I'm looking for Anders."

"You were wounded. I see." the elf said, already motioning for her to follow. So this wasn't a one-time healing occasion. "Please, don't tell the guard about the fighting. They expel refugees who take up arms from the city. He doesn't deserve it. Aside from you, he's the only human who's shown anyone else kindness around here."

"You know him well?"

"Not at all, m'lady. But he saved my child from getting burned yesterday and dressed her wounds. And he helped you." As if she could forget – but the elf was probably reminding her only due to his experiences with human selfishness. "And doesn't ask anything in return."

It turned out that he knew exactly where to look, as Vanora was apparently having a tea party with Ser Eilrys and a few other makeshift toys while Anders was attempting to make something edible out of the mess of food by the fire. The healer was focusing intently on not messing things up and looked more like he was mixing a potion requiring precise measurements rather than cooking. Illyria was once again reminded of part of her purpose (though also of the fact that only the tranquil dabbled in potion-making).

Vanora noticed her father before seeing the more out-of-place armor and ran to him with a joyful shriek. Anders, on the other hand, spotted her immediately after the elf-child's signal and seemed to have forgotten how to blink or that he could stop pouring salt into the pot any minute now.

Illyria left the family reunion after half an hour apart be for the moment, because carrying half a regiment's worth of food was getting uncomfortable. She ignored the staring as she carefully laid down her package and unwrapped what had to be the culinary equivalent of paradise in comparison to what she glanced at in the rough pots.

Anders was still holding the salt container upside down, so she quickly snatched it from his hand before it could be completely emptied.

"Now you've jeopardized your way out of eating actual food, serah. Thank you for making my job tonight easier." she noted wryly, handing him a flask of water.

The Fereldan couldn't find his voice before having the object all but forced into his hands. "I was hoping you wouldn't come." he said finally, contradicting everything that was written all over his face.

Weren't apostates supposed to be good liars? A point against the theory, then. "I feel so welcome. And so trusted, too! Did you think I was going to gorge myself tonight and have a good laugh about the practical joke my promise to help the day before was?"

The shameful thought had crossed his mind, to be completely honest. But Anders had pushed it away in an instant. "I'm concerned that this means you've hurt yourself again. You have, haven't you?" he prodded when Illyria told him to start heating up the food. "Andraste's knickerweasels, is common sense not part of the whole warrior training package?"

Almost irritatingly, Illyria burst out laughing after a moment of religious shock. "Should I even ask? No, I'd better not. And, for your information, I did my best to adhere to your instructions. But it was decided for me that idleness meant that I have time to start mastering other weapons."

"Decided for you? By whom?"

For a moment, it almost seemed as though she wouldn't answer that. Anders realized that she was wondering how much she should say without having to resort to lies. "My mother."

"I'd have thought a noble lady would be scandalized if her daughter showed such devotion to blades." It also signified that she was likely not yet attached to a man, as the husband who was proud of his wife's superior prowess in battle was a rare creature. But that was a thought that shouldn't concern him, for many very good reasons.

"Maybe in Ferelden." Illyria countered, finishing her work. Anders realized what she was missing – her shield was gone, to allow her to carry the heavy load of food. He had stumbled upon a miracle of the Maker, devoted but apparently masochistic. "Take whatever you like. There's plenty." She said it with the matter-of-factness that showed how used she was to every comfort.

But she was here, with them – with him – not in an overdecorated mansion.

Just then, Vanora and her father carefully approached them again, with the now oddly shy little girl peeking at Illyria with wide-eyed wonder. The knight responded kindly to any words of thanks, offered some of her own to the child for Ser Eilrys and added that they were free to help themselves to the food as well after seeing how thin and small the child looked from up close. The elves didn't need to be told twice and eventually were joined by the mother, who had succeeded in winning a ratty, hole-riddled blanket. Illyria offered to leave them the one she had brought the food in; it was smaller, but decidedly better in every other aspect.

Anders could feel something swell up with approval not only in his mind, but also his heart. What worried him was that exposing Illyria's skin again would trigger a similar response, if a physical one. But he could see how she favored her left hand whenever handing something to others. Concern and professionalism won over selfish desires.

"I need to see your injury again. You won't be able to fight again without getting it treated." It was the least he could do for her, even if allowing her to fight again was the exact opposite of what her health and his peace of mind needed.


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3 is here… and the plot bunnies just keep coming. On a side note, Towards Better Things will get updated later this week, most probably.

**o.O.o**

**Three**

**o.O.o**

Illyria managed to unfasten part of the bindings holding the armor around her arm, but her current limitation, most of the work still fell to Anders. But with his patient being conscious and actually worried for her modesty in the company of strangers, it was much easier to focus on the chaste and more important intention of checking on her renewed injury.

His instinct was right; the wound was in a worse condition than before, though not as bad as he had feared. The armor plates had been moving against her shoulder for the majority of the day, padding or no, and no amount of care could hide the obvious signs of physical exertion. Reddened skin, the slowly healing tissue cracked and oozing a little…

"When you say training, are you usually referring to getting pummeled by a squad of suicidal bears?" With Illyria conscious, Anders was faced with another problem. A renewed wound could most easily be healed by his magic, but revealing his well-kept secret to a woman he had known for all but a day was risky, to put it mildly. "Or possibly squirrels? Those little buggers can get through crack in armor while distracting you with their fluffy tails, I hear."

Illyria laughed a little, but ended on a hiss of pain. Anders managed to get her arm out of its sleeve and pull it out of her undershirt after she allowed a few buttons near her neckline to be opened. Fortunately, she kept her cuirass from sliding down from her chest entirely with her left arm, keeping herself covered despite looking as if she had crawled out of bed.

"It got a little rough, I suppose." She supposed? If he had undergone such a beating, he'd have stayed in bed for two weeks, dreaming of candy kittens the entire time. "There are times when I prefer my academic education to swords." she added, wincing at further contact from careful fingers.

"You've undone at least part of the healing from yesterday." Anders had to resort to the partly-effective healing poultices he carried around mostly for show. Magic had its own vibe and he didn't yet know how Illyria's body would react to his energy. "If you keep doing this, there's a chance you'll end up with a scar. You can be a fearsome fighter without having to willingly disfigure yourself, you know."

After a moment, Illyria finally got used to his touch and allowed her arm to relax. He wished he could say the same; if he didn't know that she also had a righteous heart, he would have at least been able to dismiss her as a shallow distraction. Of course, that way, they would never have met.

"Well, long sleeves are in fashion for a reason." The healing salves worked, though they usually took time; again, magic would have been greatly helpful here, but Anders knew the dangers. "It also gives me a reason to visit you." She said that almost shyly, which provided a jarring contrast to the armor and almost glitteringly shiny sword at her side.

"I'm certainly grateful for the company. Free food brought by beautiful women might just be my favorite combination in the world now." Illyria wasn't looking anywhere near at him, though, instead gazing at the elven family with peculiar fondness. Then perhaps she meant you as in not just him, specifically… "And your presence can do much good here, of course."

"You have me beaten on that account. My particular talents can destroy and defend, at best. There's hardly need for more swords here."

Indeed, but there definitely was a need for a just cause they could be rallied behind. "We all play are parts, equally important. And, honestly, right now I'm applying a pre-prepared cure to a treated wound. Hardly a science."

Oddly, Illyria seemed to be laughing silently at some sort of private joke. She didn't explain, though. "Do you hope to practice at a hospital in the city? You could get through the guard that way. I'm certain they'd only ask for a letter or recommendation or display of your skill."

Of course, she was right. But that was the exact problem. "I'm not a performer; I'm a healer. And, in any case, those I treat usually have little knowledge of writing. Unless you're offering to write me a recommendation?"

"I'd have to wait for some results before I decide."

Anders felt himself smile, which had last happened last long enough ago to feel almost peculiar. "I accept your challenge, milady. Let's see if I can earn your approval and, by extension, my dinner."

Battle injuries – all right, training injuries – were usually dealt with in a much less entertaining way, so Illyria found herself actually somewhat happy with her own lack of focus for the first time ever. It was soothing to watch a family that was happy together in a way she would never experience. It had always been her and a servant, her and a Chantry sister or her and a bunch of templars. Oh, and occasionally her and Mother, but never anything like this.

Her shoulder hurt a little less now, too, so there was only one tiny dark cloud marring her sunshine of happiness. The simple question that was running through two minds at the same time. How do you feel about mages? Specifically, what do you think of apostates?

She didn't really know what she'd do if Anders turned out to be one, or if he laughed off her suspicions with utmost ease. She had experienced healing magic a few times before, but wasn't entirely certain if she'd remember what it felt like, or if it had any truly distinctive feeling at all aside from a slight tingling near the wound. But she was somehow content not to press the issue, at least not yet.

"So how come you manage to sneak in and out of the city so easily? I'm getting envious of this mystery woman routine you're managing to pull." Anders remarked conversationally as he continued working on her injury. He had moved to sit behind her now to have a closer look at the other side of her shoulder. The bolt had almost pierced her entire shoulder.

"The way out is hardly guarded. I can more quietly if I need to… and if the guard happens to take notice of me, I can always ask them nicely to let me go."

This, finally, succeeded in getting Anders to laugh. "I'm certain politeness is the way to any guard's heart, especially if a lovely lady with a sharp blade is the one doing the asking. I'm not sure they'd be much concerned with your pedigree under those circumstances."

"I'm not a noble, per se." Templar titles weren't hereditary, nor were they particularly noble. But things functioned a bit differently in Kirkwall and no one questioned that the Knight-Commander ruled, no matter how ordinary her blood. "But my family is influential in some ways. In any case, I look the part of someone who has business in the city, so I need not worry. What about you, though?" Illyria tilted her head and waved back at Vanora when the elf-girl made Ser Eilrys wave at her from their little plate of roast meet. "Isn't your friend expecting you?"

"The last letter I received came a few weeks ago, and I sent word that I'd try to come. If I'm lucky, I'll eventually manage to get into the city. And then we'll see from there." Anders rewrapped her shoulder deftly, trying to use a clean part of the bandage. "I'm not even going to try to convince you not to practice tomorrow. You've succeeded in spoiling me. Like I said, good food and a beautiful woman as company? I can think of precious little else I'd want right now."

"You're a man of simple tastes, then." Once again, her shoulder felt almost good, but she hadn't succeeded in getting herself to spoil the moment by alluding to magic of any kind, literal or figurative. "That isn't a bad thing. Do you intend to stay in Kirkwall after you see your friend?"

"Honestly? I don't know. There are things I could accomplish here… but I'm not certain this is the place to start." There was something wistful yet desperate in the way he said it, which proved to be an odd combination. Illyria had the strangest feeling that he, too, had been forced onto a path he didn't like and now was discovering the aimlessness of freedom. That was what her mother was most against – her being aimless. "You've certainly given me a lot to think about, though. I could see myself staying."

Illyria found herself smiling. "That sounds reasonable. Kirkwall isn't that bad of a city once you get into the swing of things. Thank you for helping me again." she added when given the task of holding her armor plates in place in order for Anders to retie them. "You've certainly earned my recommendation. But my word won't be enough to get you in. I-"

"What's the matter?" Anders got back into her field of vision, looking somewhat concerned when she cut herself off so abruptly.

It was a crazy idea… but it could work. "I can get you in." Illyria corrected herself, glancing up into his incredulous eyes.

After a moment or so of the mental equivalent of crickets chirping in his brain, Anders swallowed the initial question fueled by the paranoia natural to his new lifestyle – why would you? – and turned his attention to other matters. Like, say, properly tying the laces of Illyria's wrist guard instead of making a pretty bow out of them. And, of course, asking the actual question.

"A moment ago, you said your word isn't enough." he pointed out reasonably, "And I'm reasonably certain you don't intend to bribe your way through or slaughter the guards. Because if that's the offer, then I'll have to respectfully decline." He didn't need any further attention.

But Illyria shook her head fervently. "Nothing like that, I promise you. But there is a way. You'd just have to give me a day or two to arrange everything. I'd be able to get all that I need and get you in the city. After that, though, I'm not sure what to do." she admitted, "I'd like to help further, but-"

"You can't house a ragged stranger in an upstanding family's home. No, I understand completely." Anders added when she opened her mouth to deny it. They barely knew each other, his reason reminded him, and two encounters certainly didn't warrant risking everything for his well-being. "If you succeed in bringing me past the gates, I would already be grateful." Here, he paused. "When you say you can get me past the gates, you mean a single person, don't you?"

It was a bit of a low blow, for certain, but Anders had no intention of guilt-tripping his possible savior. If she got him out of the encampment before templars decided to descend upon it, he'd certainly be indebted to her, more than she knew. But, whatever her daring plan, she couldn't take more than was necessary – certainly not a family with a child. Illyria understood the implication well and looked at the happy elves with great sadness.

"Not a single person." she said unexpectedly, "A single human. An elf wouldn't be very convincing in the role needed. I'm sorry, but it's the best I can do."

"Don't blame yourself. I wouldn't want to separate a family in any case. Besides, with the Blight over, even if they get returned to Ferelden, they have a chance for a life." Beggars on the street of one city were beggars anywhere, after all, so it hardly made a difference. At least they had each other, and no higher purpose beyond their actions. He still had the burning need to see Karl and ensure his safety… and an increasing desire not to leave his personal ray of hope behind so quickly. "Tell me about this plan of yours."

"I can't promise anything yet. But I'll do my best. It should work, assuming you can act a little." Ah, a disguise, then. Illyria was looking at him just a little peculiarly, though, as if trying to measure his acting talent by glances alone. "Are you up for that?"

"You haven't given me any details, but I think I'd be able to do it. But… why are you doing this?" Out of a sense of honor, of goodness, of debt? Anders felt any of those could be the answer, but he needed to know, somehow. "You've shown me and others great kindness without any hope for a reward. I know I've helped a little, but for you to take such a risk for my sake is beyond anything I expected, especially since you hardly know me."

"I know enough. And I think Kirkwall needs more people who don't ask rewards for good deeds." Illyria noted, looking a little thoughtful.

Her hair was almost like a golden flame in the firelight, coming unbound at her shoulders. Her words were very appealing to the new side of him, but Anders could still appreciate even outward beauty when he saw it. Six months ago, he'd have ticked off two items on his must-have list, swept her off her feet with a song in his heart and called himself a happy man. The strong temptation to still go through with that plan and the cold buzz of disapproval at the back of his mind were a testament to her appeal.

"If this plan should succeed and I enter the city with your help… would it be permissible for a dirt-poor healer to sometimes visit you when you have need of my skill?" The onslaught of coldness in his mind was as strong as if he had proclaimed his undying love for her. Given the way things were going, Anders wasn't ruling it out yet.

Especially since Illyria's incredulous look softened. "I was about to mention that was the price." she said gently, and the world lit up through her smile.

He wouldn't have lasted much longer; Anders was still far too close to his previous incarnation to be able to resist such an onslaught to the senses without claiming a small part of it. Fortunately, Vanora had grown tired of playing with her dinner and ran over to them to pester Illyria with questions about Kirkwall, about her armor, her sword, and was she a knight like Ser Eilrys? In turn, Illyria asked a bit about her home, about her parents and if she missed anything from home. The mother came over to start thanking Illyria again and again for the rescue and the food and the blanket.

She had to leave soon afterwards, but not before playing with Vanora for a little while. Anders caught on quickly that the elf-child's parents were watching not only their daughter with fondness, but also his and Illyria's interactions with the child. One didn't have to be particularly astute to understand that the mother, at least, was allowing gratitude to color her sight and picturing this as a chance meeting that had perhaps had a much deeper reason.

But Grey Wardens couldn't have children. Abominations couldn't give promises. And kindness from Illyria hardly seemed like a rare commodity. Still, he didn't want to imagine things he couldn't have. He had once succeeded in mostly convincing himself that many meaningless encounters could substitute a single non-fabricated emotion; he had been alone before. It was just the weariness of his task getting to him, the hopelessness.

Illyria squeezed his hand firmly before disappearing into the night. He spent the rest of the day trying to forget the feeling, or associate it with some inner strength.

What would happen once she found out what he was? If their association wasn't going to be a one-time encounter – it already wasn't, as the unforgetting presence in his mind reminded him - she'd have to learn the truth eventually. Maybe not that of his true nature, but if he told her of his magic and she didn't turn away… then he'd have an ally and perhaps more. He'd been alone for too long – that was one of the reasons why he had latched onto any news from Karl so quickly.

Only those with business in the city were being allowed into Kirkwall. And Anders certainly had business there now.

There were many plans being laid around for an uneventful day in Kirkwall. Illyria Stannard had hatched a brilliant if insane plan to get a person past the guards without rousing her mother's suspicion. It was a delicate, time-consuming operation, but she believed she could pull it off.

Knight-Captain Cullen was also a man with a plan. That plan involved finding out why his otherwise stellar new student turned up bone-tired every day, but substituted energy with outright gusto before fleeing the training grounds whenever the clock gave her the signal. Lady Stannard was making immense improvements. Lady Stannard also fought with the ferocity of a barbarian and the grace of a bronto on a unicycle.

She was surprised when a break was called prematurely during her fifth lesson.

"Milady, you seem distracted." That was the politest way Cullen could put it. Yet even distracted, she could wipe the floor with him and many others. "May I ask what's wrong? The Knight-Commander hasn't decided to intensify your training regimen, I gather?"

"I'm fine, Serah Cullen. Really." Oh, now that was convincing. "But perhaps you could help me a little – I haven't had much luck in the Chantry's library. It's sort of a templar-related question."

"I'm certain the Commander could help you better than I, milady." Though it was an unexpected honor and distinct pleasure for him that Lady Stannard had thought to ask him first. "I'll answer what I can, as long as it doesn't concern things my oaths forbid me to reveal."

They resumed their training session mid-conversation, as if nothing was going on. And then, Illyria found the right words.

"I've been trying to learn more about apostates. I'm told Ferelden's Circle had less frequent, but more serious escapes. Perhaps you would indulge me and tell me more about runaway mages." Here, she won the duel, because Cullen was shocked into carelessness. She disarmed him readily, then continued with her question. "If they aren't hostile, how would you recognize one? Is there some outward sign of their magic?"

It would have probably been gentle if she'd just socked him in the jaw and finished him off at this point.

Still, he had made a promise, and the Maker hardly looked kindly upon those who broke their oaths. So Cullen scrambled to his feet, grateful for the lack of an audience at this point. "I certainly… didn't expect that question, milady. I should remind you that any apostates you might encounter are best left to trained templars."

"I might not always have that luxury." she replied diplomatically, sheathing her weapon for the moment. "And I'd like to understand such dangers better myself. Who knows? You might even succeed in converting me to the templar cause." Illyria almost had to bite her tongue to keep her sardonic laugh in check.

The Knight-Captain didn't look entirely convinced, but obliged her nonetheless. He carefully kept anything of substance out of the conversation, but Illyria was patient and sat through the entire lecture. The greatest danger of mages, of course, was that they looked like anyone else – a man, a woman, a child. Until they used their power, it was almost impossible to identify them; Harrowed mages were mostly able to control their powers and used them at the bidding of those with wisdom. He almost came close to admitting that not all mages were entirely bad.

The bottom line was, there were no sure-fire methods. The best way to out a mage was to get them into a situation where they could either use their powers or die – or, short of that, suffer some great hurt. The worst of maleficarum usually chose that moment to bring forth their demons. So, all in all, certainly not what Illyria wanted to hear.

She thanked the templar nonetheless, a little more knowledgeable.

"If I may ask, milady, why this sudden interest in apostates? People usually ask these questions if they suspect someone of being one."

"I very much doubt they do." she said before she could think it over.

Cullen had the decency to look a little sheepish. "True, many without education about the nature of magic are quick to accuse anyone of possessing it for whatever selfish reason. But you grew up among templars and have had some contact with mages. I think your accusations would hardly be unfounded."

"I'm touched by your faith in me, Serah, but this is but idle curiosity. The Knight-Commander would hardly allow me to mingle with would-be apostates before receiving my oath that I'd become one of her flock."

Cullen had heard something about that; some of his own men were scheduled to perform a routine sweep of the refugee camps outside and, apparently, the Lady Stannard had wanted to do that herself. Still, he understood her mother's sentiments; though a brilliant fighter otherwise, she had no experience with opponents with magic. Not that he really believed her excuse about curiosity – the Stannards never did anything without reason, either one of them.

"Lady Stannard… I hope I'm not being too forward in the matter, but please don't hesitate to bring any suspicions of yours to my attention. I will treat them with the utmost care and even secrecy before they can be confirmed, if it eases your mind."

Even if that went somewhat against his training and oaths. Maker, he had to stop his descent down the path to madness; now that he finally had the opportunity to take a wife and have a family, he just had to choose yet another unattainable woman. Meredith would skin him alive before she allowed her daughter to be courted by a foreigner with a past, no matter how efficient. It was perhaps part of the reason why Cullen threw everything into his work nowadays.

Lady Stannard smiled and suddenly even the evisceration seemed a somewhat reasonable price. "I believe that. Thank you, though, Knight-Captain. It's very appreciated."

"My… my pleasure, milady." Cullen managed to get out a complete sentence, fortunately.

And she invited him to eat lunch with her later on, something that earned Cullen the most timid hate-filled glances in the world from the majority of the courtyard.

Illyria herself decided to go through with her initial plan that night. She didn't really know where that was going to lead or why she was so intent on following through with it, but she remembered her mother's words – she couldn't be neutral. And so, for the first time, she picked a side.


	4. Chapter 4

Apologies for the huge gap – I finally have time to continue my fanfic writing. If anyone still wants to see this story continued, please review/PM me and I will go on writing the story with the most support.


End file.
